by Linda Howard
Ronsard’s eyebrows flew up in disbelief. “You’re taking the part of this . . . this disobedient hoyden?”
Laure giggled at hearing herself described as a hoyden. Niema met Ronsard’s accusing look with an innocent expression and a shrug. “Of course. What did you expect me to do?”
“Agree with him,” Laure said. “He expects all of his women to agree with him.”
This time Ronsard’s astonishment wasn’t feigned. Stunned at hearing such a statement issuing from his innocent daughter’s lips, he stared speechlessly at her.
“But I’m not one of his women,” Niema pointed out. “I’m just a friend.”
“He has never brought any of the others to meet me. Since he brought you, I thought perhaps he wants you to be my maman.”
Ronsard made a little choking sound. Niema ignored him to grin at the child. “No, it’s nothing like that. We aren’t in love with each other, and besides, your papa is allergic to marriage.”
“I know, but he would marry if he thought that was what I want. He spoils me terribly. He will get anything I ask for, so I try not to ask for very much, or he would be too busy to do anything else.”
She was an alarming blend of childlike innocence and trust, and an astuteness far beyond her years. Whatever her physical problems were, they had forced her to look inward much earlier than young people usually learned to do. “While he is recovering,” she said, briskly turning the wheelchair, “I’ll show you my rooms.”
Niema strolled beside the chair while Laure gave her a guided tour of her suite. Everything had been specially outfitted so she could reach it from a wheelchair, and attached to one side of the chair was a long pair of tongs so she could pick up anything she dropped. A middle-aged woman came forward, smiling, to be introduced as Laure’s nurse, Bernadette. Her bedroom opened off Laure’s, so she was available during the night if she was needed.
Anything that could possibly interest a young girl had been made available. There were books, movies, dolls, games, samplers she had made, fashion magazines. Laure showed all of them to Niema, while Ronsard trailed behind, bewildered and bemused at being made to feel unnecessary.
Laure even showed Niema her makeup case. Ronsard made choking noises again. This was not a little girl’s pretend makeup, but the real stuff from Dior, stunningly packaged in a silver train case. “I ordered it,” Laure said, unperturbed by her father’s horror. “But nothing looks right when I put it on. Even the lipstick is too . . . too much like a clown. Today, I rubbed my finger on the stick, then on my lips.”
“That’s good. It’s called staining,” Niema said, pulling a chair over to sit beside the girl and taking the train case on her lap. She began pulling out the sleek containers of makeup. “Makeup is like anything else, it takes practice to use. And some things will never look good because they don’t flatter your coloring. You learn by experimenting. Would you like me to show you?”
“Oh, please,” Laure said eagerly, leaning forward.
“I forbid it,” Ronsard said, with more desperation than sternness. “She is too young—”
“Louis,” Niema interrupted. “Go away. This is girl stuff.”
He didn’t go away. He sat down, a charmingly helpless expression on his face, watching as Niema demonstrated how to use each item.
A pink blush was much too dark for that white face. Niema took a tissue and wiped most of it off, leaving only a delicate tint. “Remember, none of this sets into stone when you apply it. If it is too much, wipe part of it off. I always have a tissue and cotton swabs with me when I put on makeup, so I can make the effect more subtle. Do you see my eyeliner?” She leaned closer, and Laure nodded as she stared hard at Niema’s eyes.
“I use a black pencil, like this—very soft, so it doesn’t pull my skin. Then I use a swab to wipe most of it away, so it’s barely noticeable. But my coloring is dark, while yours is fair, so black would be too harsh for you. When you are old enough to start wearing eyeliner, use a soft gray or taupe—”
The makeup lesson went on, with Laure hanging on every word. Under Niema’s tutelage, very little was actually applied to the small, skeletal face, just the merest hint of color. Laure peered in a mirror, studied herself, and smiled. “Now I don’t look so ill,” she said with satisfaction. “Thank you very much, Madame Jamieson. Were you watching, Papa?”
“Yes, I was watching. It looks very nice, but—”
“If I die, I want you to make certain someone puts makeup on me just like this. I do not want to look sick when I reach Heaven.”
All the color drained out of Ronsard’s face. Niema felt stricken on his behalf, but also for this little girl who had never in her life known what it was to enjoy good health, to run and play like other children.
“I won’t wear it now, I promise,” she said. “Not even lipstick, though I do like it. But . . . if. Promise me, Papa.”
“I promise.” His voice sounded hoarse, strained, unlike Ronsard’s normal suave tones.
She reached over and patted his knee, the child comforting the parent. “You may take the case,” she said, “and keep it safe for me. That way you will always know where it is.”
He lifted her out of the wheelchair and settled her on his lap, taking care not to dislodge the oxygen tube. She was so frail, so tiny, her legs dangled like a kindergartner’s. He couldn’t speak for a moment, his dark head bent so that his cheek rested on the top of her head. “You won’t need it for a long, long time,” he finally said.
“I know.” Her eyes, though, held a different knowledge.
She seemed to be tiring. He touched her cheek. “Do you want to lie down for a while?”
“On the longue,” she said. “There is a movie I wish to see.”
Bernadette came over and pushed the wheelchair and its container of oxygen while he carried Laure to the plush chaise longue and carefully placed her on it. Under the rose stain, the child’s lips held a tinge of blue. He covered her legs with a soft blanket while Bernadette arranged the pillows just so, propping her in a comfortable position.
“There!” she said, squirming back against the pillows. “I am in the perfect position for watching movies.” She gave him a sly look. “It is a romance.”
He had recovered his aplomb. “You will give me gray hair,” he announced, feigning a scowl. “A romance!”
“With sex,” she added mischievously.
“Tell me no more,” he said, holding up his hands as if to ward off anything else she might say. “I don’t want to know. A papa can bear only so much. Tell Madame Jamieson good day, and we’ll leave you to your romance.”
Laure held out her hand. “Good day, madame. That was fun! Will you visit me again?”
“Of course,” Niema said, smiling despite the ache in her chest. “I’ve very much enjoyed meeting you, mademoiselle. Your papa is lucky to have you as his daughter.”
Laure looked up at her father, and again the expression in her eyes was far too old for her years. “I am the one who is lucky,” she said.
He kissed her, touched her cheek, and left her with a smile. His grip on Niema’s hand, however, was almost bone-shattering.
When they were out in the hallway, he said, “Dieu,” in a stifled tone, and bent over from the waist, bracing his hands on his knees while he took deep breaths.
Niema automatically reached out to offer him comfort. She hesitated, her hand in midair, then lightly touched his back.
After a moment he straightened and walked farther down the hall away from Laure’s rooms before he spoke again. “Sometimes it is more than I can bear,” he said, his voice still constrained. “I apologize. I hadn’t realized she—I’ve tried to keep from her how very ill she is, but she’s so intelligent . . .” The words trailed off.
“What’s wrong with her?” Niema asked gently. There was a decanter of liquor and a set of glasses on a side table. She went over to it and poured him a hefty portion of whatever liquor it was. He sat on a nearby chair and downed it without q
uestion.
“Too much,” he said, turning the empty glass around and around in his hands. “If it was any one thing, there would be things that could be done. She has a defective heart, only one kidney, and cystic fibrosis. The CF seems to affect her digestive system more than her lungs, or she likely would have already—”
He broke off, his throat working. “There are new drugs that help, but it’s still so difficult for her to get the nutrients she needs. She eats constantly, but she doesn’t grow and doesn’t gain weight. What growth she has had strains her heart. A heart transplant is out of the question because of the cystic fibrosis.” He gave a bitter little smile that wasn’t a smile at all. “Finding a suitable heart is almost impossible. She would have to have a young child’s heart, because of her size, and donor hearts from children are rare. And her blood type is A negative, which narrows the chance of finding a heart almost to zero. Even if one came available, the opinion of the medical establishment is that a healthy heart shouldn’t be wasted on someone who . . . who has so many other problems.”
There was nothing to say. She couldn’t offer meaningless phrases of hope when Laure’s condition couldn’t get much more hopeless.
“I’ve been trying to find a heart on the black market for years.” He stared blindly at the glass in his hands. “I pour money into research on genetic treatments for CF, on new drugs, anything that will buy her some time. If I can fix just one thing—just one!” he said fiercely. “Then she will have a chance.”
Realization slammed into her like a blow. “That’s why you—” She stopped, not needing to finish the sentence.
He finished it for her. “Became an illegal arms dealer? Yes. I had to have enormous sums of money, and quickly. The choice was drugs or weapons. I chose weapons. If anything—anything—happens that will increase her chances, whether it’s a heart miraculously coming available or a new treatment, I have to be ready immediately with the cash. The research is also hideously expensive.” He shrugged. “She is my child,” he said simply. “The devil may have my soul, but he’s welcome to it if she can live.”
She had known there were layers to him. Except for his occupation, he had seemed to be an honorable man, as if he completely separated the two halves of his life. What he did was abhorrent, but he did it out of his consuming love for his child. She ached for him, and for Laure.
“What of Laure’s mother?”
“She was a . . . passing fancy. She didn’t want to have the baby, but I convinced her to carry it to term. I paid all of her expenses and gave her a large lump sum for her trouble. I don’t believe she ever saw Laure. The doctors told her the baby probably would not live, and she left. I brought Laure home with me.
“I wasn’t poor. My family was more than comfortable. But it wasn’t enough, not if I wanted my baby to live. So I used my entrée into the Parisian upper crust to both provide contacts and protect my efforts. Don’t look at me with such heartbreak in your eyes, my dear. I’m not gallant or tragic, I’m ruthless and pragmatic. My one true vulnerability is my daughter, and for her I am putty, as you saw. She can be quite ruthless in handling me, a quality she doubtless inherited from me.”
“The heartbreak is for her, not you,” Niema said tartly. “You made your choice.”
“I would make the same choice again, as I told you before. And you might do the same.” He eyed her, a cynical smile hovering on his mouth. “You never know what you might do until your child is involved.”
She couldn’t argue with that, not if she were honest. She wasn’t the type of person who could accept, without a fight, her child’s death sentence. If possible she would move heaven and earth, and if it wasn’t possible she would try anyway. That was what Ronsard had done. Though she didn’t agree with his path, his reaction was the same as hers would have been.
He set the glass down with a decisive thunk and got to his feet. He ran his fingers through his loosened hair and worked his shoulders as if loosening tense muscles. “I have a hundred guests waiting for me,” he said. “Perhaps I should begin fulfilling my duties as host. But I wanted you to meet Laure, and . . . know that part of me. Thank you for taking the time to show her about the makeup. I had no idea.”
“How could you?” Niema’s heart broke all over again, thinking of the young girl who wanted to look her best when she died
“I forbid you to cry.”
She squared her shoulders. “I’m not crying. But I will if I want to, and you can’t stop me.”
He held up his hands. “I surrender. Come, let’s rejoin the party.”
As they left his private wing, a tall, blonde Valkyrie of a woman approached. “I hate to disturb you,” she said to Ronsard. Her accent was pure American. “But several details have come up that need your attention.”
He nodded. “Niema, this is Cara Smith, my secretary. Cara, Niema Jamieson. Will you excuse me, my dear?” he asked Niema. “Duty calls.”
“Certainly.” Niema watched him stride off down the stairs, with Cara half a step behind him. She noted the direction in which he went; his office must be on the first floor, then, and in the west wing.
She ached with sympathy for both him and Laure. That would not, however, get in the way of her doing her job.
She walked casually in the same direction, but by the time she crossed the huge central foyer he wasn’t in sight. They had disappeared through one of several doors, and it would be too obvious if she walked through the villa opening all the doors.
But at least she now had a general idea of his office’s location. She would try to get him to give her a guided tour of the main floor, and surely he would indicate which room was his office.
Tomorrow, John would arrive. If she already had the location, they could possibly plant the bug and copy Ronsard’s files tomorrow night.
Anticipation zinged through her. John would be here tomorrow.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
It was ten o’clock at night when John drove up to Ronsard’s estate. The grounds were so well-lit that he could see the glow from several miles away. The curving drive led him to a set of double gates, which remained closed as he approached. When he stopped, a uniformed guard came out to shine a flashlight in John’s face, ask his name, and see his identity. Silently John reached inside his tuxedo jacket and produced his ID. He didn’t give his name verbally, an omission that made the guard glance sharply at him, then step away to speak into the two-way radio he carried.
A moment later, he gave a signal and the gates swung open. The signal, John surmised, meant that the guard on the outside couldn’t open the gates himself. He had to give the okay to someone else inside, which eliminated the chance that he could be overpowered and access gained to the estate.
He gave John another hard look as he leaned down to return the identification to him. John returned the look without expression, then drove through the gates.
He stopped the car in front of a massive curving entry and got out. Immediately a pair of red-jacketed valets approached; one got out his luggage, while the other gave him a ticket, got into the car, and drove it away. It would probably receive a thorough search while it was in their possession, John thought. His luggage, too.
Let them search. They wouldn’t get any information from it, not even his fingerprints. He had carefully sprayed his fingertips with a clear-coat gel that hardened and provided a smooth finish. It was thin and very nearly undetectable to the touch and would come off when he washed his hands with hot water. A cold-water wash wouldn’t disturb the gel.
The spray was a vast improvement over the methods he had used in the past; sometimes he would dip his fingertips into puddles of melted wax, but the wax wasn’t very durable. For a brief job or an emergency, however, it would do. Another trick was to paint his fingertips with a thick application of clear fingernail polish, but he had to have time for it to dry or that was useless. Band-Aids wrapped around each finger were a quick and effective method of hiding his prints, but someone wi
th bandages on every finger was noticeable—at least, if that someone was over three years old.
As he mounted the steps, a tall, tuxedo-clad man approached. “Mr. Temple,” he said in a crisp British accent. “Mr. Ronsard will see you now. Follow me, please.”
John silently followed, not inclined to exchange pleasantries. He could hear music, and people in formal dress stood in small groups, laughing and chattering in a mix of languages. The women glittered in jewels, and so did some of the men. His own tuxedo was severely cut, without a frill or ruffle in sight, but the cut and fit shouted that it was custom made for him. Several women glanced his way, then looked again. When he wanted, he could pass through a crowd completely unnoticed, but tonight he wanted people to notice. He walked with a silent, graceful saunter, like a panther that has seen its prey but knows there’s no need to hurry.
The elegant flunky led him to a small anteroom off the foyer. The room was comfortably furnished with a sofa and two wing-back chairs, a cozy little selection of books, a small fireplace, and a selection of spirits. Considering that the room was no more than eight feet square, and that the door had a sturdy lock, John guessed that it was there more for quick and furtive lovemaking than it was for any other purpose. A good host always provided for his guests, after all.
“Monsieur Temple.” Ronsard rose to his feet as John entered. He nodded a dismissal at the other man, who silently closed the door behind him as he left. “I am Louis Ronsard.” He extended his hand, every inch a gracious host.
John let a fraction of a second lapse before he took Ronsard’s hand. Not a flicker of expression crossed his face. “Why am I here?” he finally asked, his tone low and controlled. “This . . . meeting wasn’t necessary.”
“I think it is.” Ronsard was slick about it, but he was carefully studying John’s face. “I don’t like dealing with unknown factors. Moreover, you knew about a compound that is very new and supposed to be unknown. Would you mind telling me how you came to hear of it?”
